


Lesson in Discretion

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, as she studies her practiced smiles in the mirror, she can’t help but thank him for his work. Sequel to "On My Skin," though they are somewhat independent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson in Discretion

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "On My Skin." As with everything I write for these two (and God, I can't stop writing these two) this takes place a few years after current book canon.

She does not see or hear from him for the rest of the day. She eats her mid-day and evening meals in solitude and passes the time in-between bent over her needlework or trying to make sense of the ledgers. None of this is strange, as he always gives her space after they had spent the night together. Alayne suspects he’s testing her, to see when or if she’ll come to him. He’s always testing her.

On this occasion, though, he breaks first. As the shadows are lengthening on the walls, he has her maid come to her and tell her that her presence is requested in her father’s solar. Her stomach flutters at the summons, but she is able to thank the maid with an indifferent expression; a more than useful trick for her current situation. When she is alone, Alyane counts to one hundred and then resumes her stiches. He can wait.

****

The moon had risen by the time she knocks on the solar door, but she isn’t at all surprised to discover him still there, his voice rough as he gives her permission to enter. Wrapping her fingers around the handle she makes her expression as innocent as she can, trying to recall the girl she once was.

“You’re late,” he offers for a greeting. Petyr’s seated behind his desk, the top strewn with bits of ignored parchment. The cold remains of his barely touched dinner sit to his right, along with a half-empty bottle of wine. She tries to read his expression—she had become alarmingly good at that in the years they had spent together, much to his pride and annoyance—and finds, troublingly, that she cannot. His eyes are glassy, his mouth fixed in a hard line, but she can’t tell if it’s true annoyance or a front. Or something else, brought on by the drink. It makes her defiant, and she rolls her shoulders back to highlight the low bodice.

“The time slipped away from me.” Alayne keeps her voice light and her expression innocent, meeting his intense stare. She holds it, feeling her pride grow as each second passes and she does not wither under it.

“Is that so?” He raises an eyebrow at her and snorts derisively when she doesn’t answer. “Alayne, I don’t think I’ve been unkind to you have I?” He does not wait for an answer, but pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “When I request you to do something, I expect you to do it. Is that too much to ask?”

Something about his clipped tone confirms her suspicion that his frustration has nothing to do with her tardiness. The bruise blossoming at her breast throbs, as a delicious mix of anticipation and anxiety shots through her. She conceals it well, another trait she is grateful to him for. “I apologize. What is it that you want of me?”

Petyr takes a sip from his goblet, his eyes still pinning her to the wall. He lets the silence linger for just a bit too long, then motions her forward. Alayne surpasses the beginnings of a wicked grin, and moves toward him with even steps. She’s not surprised when he pulls her into his lap the second their hands touch. She can feel his frustration and need, can see this close up how his control is just a thin veneer brought on by the wine. She wraps her arms around his neck and adopts her most contrite face. It’s more difficult than usual—already she can feel his hands gripping her hair, and she remembers the look on his face when she scratched his back.

His fingers graze the edge of her bodice, lingering over the bruise, and she feels her skin prick in response. “What’s this?” his voice is strained, and she can feel his cock twitch against her thigh. She shifts her body to rub up against it.

“You should know,” she lets the mischievous smile finally reach her lips. When he meets her eyes, she sees lust clouded by drink, and marvels at his resolve to wait this long to see her.

Petyr’s hands are nimble, even with the wine. He slides one up her back and loosens her laces, till he is able to tear the silk aside and expose the bite mark. When that’s done, he sighs the exasperated sigh of a teacher disappointed in a pupil.

“Alayne,” he says, gripping her hip tightly. “I thought I had taught you the value of discretion?”

Her mind is trying to come up with a response when his mouth closes over the fresh bruise, teeth biting into the marked flesh. Her back arches and she struggles to keep her cries silent; she knows she didn’t lock the door, and she can picture her maid’s expression if they were to be found like this. She grips his graying hair tightly, and finds herself growing wet at the sound of his moan.

When he pulls away she lets out a shuttering gasp, and all her practiced resolve dies. She could almost be angry at herself, as she had gotten so good at not breaking under him. But the pain and pleasure shooting through her is too much, and she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t pleased to get this reaction from him. If she thought about it long enough she might be disgusted with herself, so she doesn’t.

His hand moves up her skirts, sliding along the soft wool of her stockings. When he reaches her bare thigh, his fingers warmed by the wine, Alayne shifts so that she straddles his lap, her forehead touching his. The touch of his hand is familiar and enticing, and despite their somewhat perilous location (usually they are behind locked doors, in the dead of night, but the nearly empty castle is still somewhat alert) she responds, just as she always does. Sometimes she wonders, on the nights she is left alone, how he got her to fall into…whatever this is between them, with such ease, over the course of the years they have spent in near solitude. She never questions her enjoyment, that seems real enough. And that should be all that matters, but his skill still astounds her, arousing something in her that she can’t quite name.

There’s no time for these thoughts at the moment, not when his mouth is on her neck. Alayne mews, knowing he loves the noises he can draw from her, relishing how his body tenses and responds to every sound she makes. It’s a queer sort of power, one that sends almost as much pleasure rushing through her as the feel of his hands.

His mouth leaves her only to take another sip from his goblet, and she sees enjoyment flash through his eyes when he catches her frustrated expression. He licks his lips as he sets the wine aside, and leans as far back in his chair as he can. She notices that he goes about it gently, and she remembers the feel of his blood under her fingers. She only allows herself only small smile, though, as she recalls his expression and the feeling of ecstasy that had shot through her with the marking. Glee would not be the proper reaction of a reprimanded pupil.

“What if someone other than me were to notice?” he asks, his hand again tracing the bruise. His other hand was still under her skirts, slim fingers edging closer to the wetness between her thighs. “What would you tell them?”

“No one did,” she rests her hands on his chest, feeling his ragged breathing. She adjusts herself a bit, moving against his stiff cock, and rests her lips at his ear. “And it’s impolite to pry into the matters of the daughter of the Lord Protector.”

Petyr licks his lips again, though not because of the wine. “People still talk, Alayne.”

She kisses him lightly and pouts slightly, putting on her innocent look. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

He turns his gaze away from her, his brow furrowed by tension. She watches him intently, trying to read his thought process, but she is left with no real sense of what was going through his mind, though his body betrays his desire well enough.

“You’re going to have to prove to me that you can be discrete,” he finally says, his eyes still focused on the bruise. “Do you really know how dangerous this all is, Alayne?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. The hand under her skirt moves forward, till his fingers are tracing her folds. When he sees just how wet she is one corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, and he rolls his hips upward in response. She opens her mouth in a soft gasp that turns into a moan when he slides the tips of two fingers inside her, easily.

“Quiet,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “Prove to me you can be quiet, and I’ll forgive you. Isn’t that what you want?”

All she wants at this moment was to be full of him, her arms wrapped around him tightly. His harsh voice only increases that need and, wordlessly, she nods.

“Good girl,” he whispers, pulling out slowly, letting her feel it. She can tell he’s going to be slow tonight, and wonders if that’s to keep himself in control.

“You see Alayne,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know what game you’re playing.” He positions his thumb to rub small circles over her clit, and she buries her face in his shoulder, trying to concentrate on his words and not his actions. Not that that helps much—his voice sends shivers down her spine, and she finds herself biting at his collar to find calm.

He laughs at that, and speeds up his pace. In other circumstances she would be angered at him mocking her, but her mind is cloudy and the smell of wine and feel of his fingers is too sweet (besides, her nails will revenge her, when the time is right, and she smiles against his skin at the thought). She kills her cries in her throat, allowing only ragged gasps to escape her lips. In the quiet of the solar they still seem too loud, as does the pounding of her pulse and his labored breaths.

“Don’t mistake me,” he says, laying an almost chaste kiss on her temple. “I enjoyed it.” The confession, even though it was expected, causes her to bite down on her lip. When he crooks his fingers inside of her a heartbeat later, she can taste blood. “But this must be our secret, hmm?” He allows their lips to brush, his tongue darting out just for a split second, to taste.

She nods, but the memory of his eyes burning into her as they sat over their cold porridge, the edges of the red mark bright against the pale wool of her gown, the way his mouth twitched with every move she made…there was a pleasure in that even she did not anticipate, a thrill that felt almost as good as his fingers do now. She would be meek and obedient for him now, but Alayne knew she would not be able to resist the tease for long.

He slides his fingers out almost all the way, and she can feel a protest form on her tongue, stopping herself just in time. He shakes his head, his eyes reproachful, but there is a smirk on his lips.

“I will assure you, _Alayne_ , that this is a more than useful skill in the game,” he lingers over the name, the way he does sometimes, when he is in his cups and takes too much pleasure in teasing her. His hand resumes the attention, and she meets his eyes. The gray-green gaze is cloudy and darkened with lust, and she finds herself reaching, almost instinctively, for the bulge in his breeches. She manages to run one pale hand down the velvet, before he grasps her around the wrist and secures her hand to the arm of the chair. His fingers bite into her flesh, his grip firm and pleasing and that—plus the hard lump in his throat as he swallows, trying to regain his composure—makes her return his smirk.

“I think I understand,” she says, falling into the role of pupil once more. “Shall we move on?” She finds she can't keep the hope out of her voice.

He lifts one eyebrow and she sees a wicked gleam in his eyes, but he returns his fingers to their work. She grips his shoulders so tight it’s a wonder the fabric doesn’t tear, and shuts her eyes. This moment is the sweetest, when they’re deep in the actual act and her mind is occupied. Then, she doesn’t have to think about how wrong this is, or how he slowly inserted himself into her life and her body over the years. She doesn’t have to think about what any of this means, for now or for the future. She can forget that sometimes pleasure is not enough. She can forget about the woman she has become, at his insistence, for him.

Though sometimes, as she studies her practiced smiles in the mirror, she can’t help but thank him for his work.

His fingers pick up the pace and she braces herself for the release, biting her lip to quiet herself, feeling pride at her restraint. That all shatters into confusion when he suddenly pulls away, leaving her to slump lifeless and exasperated in his lap. She looks up at him with eyes a bit more vulnerable than she would like, and almost rakes her nails across his face when she sees his smile, still there.

He breaks the silence, his words clipped. “I think that’s enough.”

Alayne tries to find her tongue, but her mind is swirling and the ache between her legs is painful. She tries to compose her face, to give it the same look of control his has (she sees now that’s it’s difficult for him, but the important thing is that he is somehow managing to pull it off).

“Consider this your punishment,” he continues, as he wipes his fingers on his doublet. “Remember this, my dear.”

She can feel her cheeks burning, in anger and humiliation. Still, she says nothing—she knows it’s best to remain contrite, that any protests she makes now will only weaken her. _I’ll remember this, though._ She slides off his lap, somehow finding a way to stand on her shaky legs, and looks him over. His brow is furrowed and he’s still noticeable aroused, but he makes no move to bid her goodnight.

She tightens her laces back up with forcefully calm hands, trying to make herself look presentable (even at this late hour, appearances must be keep). She leaves the room without another word, head held high. As she makes her way down a darkened corridor and towards her own bed, she wonders what he’s doing now that she’s out of the room and quickens her step.


End file.
